ZOMBIE
by Sanguinary Tide
Summary: The day he became an Arcobaleno, Skull knew he'd lost a lot of things, he just wasn't aware that he also left something behind. 25 years later, a seemingly teenaged Skull decides to revisit his past and is horrified by what he finds.


**Foreword:** …Hmm…Spanner's fic was supposed to go first…but…Skull had a story to tell it seems. O.O

**Disclaimer: **For this moment and only this moment, I will state: I do not own Katekyo Hitman REBORN! …anyone else ask or question me about this…and you may realize that you are not Skull and are therefore…not Immortal.

**ZOMBIE**

_**Prologue: …Ashes to Ashes**_

_Birmingham, England (September 2023)_

He'd been watching the house for the last two hours. Seen the coming and going of shapes through the curtained windows, heard the echoes of voices throughout the structure, but it wasn't until one of those voices called at him that he'd reacted. It pulled at bittersweet memories and reminded him of just what exactly he was doing here—why he had in fact been staking out a civilian house for two days. He hadn't meant to. He just didn't know how to approach. What was he supposed to say? He wasn't even sure if he should knock or ring the doorbell. In the end however, it didn't matter what he said…all that mattered was that he'd have to look at her—look her dead in the eyes—and be faced with the consequences.

He fought back the shiver of cowardice. After all, the one person who'd always managed to give him courage was right on the other side of the door. …All he had to do was open it. …well…not literally…he didn't want to get caught looking like he was breaking and entering. He froze at the thought and soon he was once again sinking into his downward spiral of fear. _Forget being caught breaking and entering! How was she going to react when she actually saw him? What would she think!?_ He was panicking again. He clenched his jaw, his eyes shut tightly, and tilted his head back against the stone wall. It took him several deep breaths before he sighed heavily and slumped to the concrete floor of the alleyway.

He stared into space for a long while before hesitantly reaching into his jacket, the black leather of his gloves matching his choice of outerwear. He removed a folded sheet of paper. He'd printed it from his computer. It certainly wasn't the best quality, least of all in this day and age. Hell, it was even black and white…but it hardly mattered. It was a piece of his past that he'd thought long buried, back when he was known by a different name and The Immortal Skull was just a title. It'd surfaced on the internet a few weeks ago. Despite his forced leave of the stunt world, the 'trade' had never actually left the former arcobaleno. And though he could never participate or compete for fear of drawing attention to himself outside of the Mafia, he'd certainly kept up with it—a task that would've been much harder without the internet.

It was almost a month ago when he'd been lurking on a forum for fans of stunt performers and like all discussions about favorites…it had turned into a verbal spar of which favorite was the greatest. It was a lesser known pastime of his: watching fanboys argue their points about how _so and so_ had done this and that…when he himself could do it all and better…and _had_…in the body of a _toddler_ at that. It was literally nothing new…until someone new to the conversation posted. He'd seen the guy's posts every once in a while…something of an infrequent visitor to the site, but that hadn't been what had captivated his attention…it was the post itself.

_…those guys are all great in their own rights, I suppose…but…doesn't anybody remember? During the 90's, there was this one guy…they called him The Immortal Skull. Supposedly, he couldn't be killed…but I'm guessing that was because he always survived and completed stunts that would have crippled if not killed any other stuntman. I mean, I know he was a rookie and all before he disappeared from the scene, but…he was still pretty notable._

The comments that followed were all pretty standard considering…

_…disappeared from the scene? *snort* Yeah right. They called the guy immortal, but he didn't disappear. He died, dumbass. Don't YOU remember, the immortal asswipe got himself killed during one of his so-called death defying stunts…_

He'd long gotten used to those types of commentary years back, when he'd first become an arcobaleno, so it hadn't bothered him in the least. No, he was more focused on the picture attached to the new guy's post. It was a clip out from a newspaper…likely scanned in. It was a picture he hadn't seen in years, not since before Checkerface. He was fresh from a stunt, he couldn't even remember which one it was, looking at the photo, but he knew the look on his face—the expression of sweet satisfaction, of triumph, of having snatched his own life back from the teeth of death. He was wearing black leather pants, boots, and a dingy white tee—his jacket probably lying about somewhere in the background—he was a grimy, sweaty, grinning mess. And she hadn't cared less.

She'd thrown herself over him the moment the picture had been taken, her own grin nearly predatory when compared to his. She had known what press exposure, no matter how little, would do for his public persona and had been just as excited as he was…_if not a little more, in fact_. His eyes studied the faded image and after a while, he couldn't see anything but her. The worn jeans covered in grease stains, a studded belt that had an annoyingly large and complicated buckle on it—he remembered it with detailed aggravation—and a tank top she'd thrown on just before running out onto the field. Her dark blonde hair was cut short into an artistically butchered bob—her description, not his. The smaller details, like the hungry look in her eyes and the tattoos she'd gotten at his insistence had faded…worn away from the years…or just not all that visible under the newspapers printing.

He sighed again and raised a finger to trace her form. He wanted to ask how he'd forgotten her, but he couldn't…because he _never had_. He'd just chosen not to think of her…to not dwell on the past…dwell on what he could never return to. _…and in the process_, he'd forgotten what it felt like—what it felt like having her by his side.

She'd been his. He'd never been too sure of anything in his life, he couldn't be with a profession like his, but the one thing he'd always known, was that she was _his._ The girl in this picture was _his woman_…or at least…_she had been_. If there was one thing Skull had learned in his time out of time, it was that most things didn't stand the test of time…relationships included. …and he could only imagine what that meant when one of the participants was dead, _supposedly anyway._

He looked up from the photo and back across the street to the brick home. He hadn't really expected to find her for some reason. Of course there wasn't any actual reason she'd be hard to locate. It wasn't as if she was mafia. She was a civilian. That was why he left her—he had to. She couldn't get caught up in the world that he'd found himself immersed in.

Still, _England_, while not the last place he expected, was definitely not where he thought he'd find the Louisiana born and breed, Monica Théard. _…especially seeing as he'd last seen her camping out in the Ural Mountains…_waiting_ for him._

He looked back to the photo and his gaze narrowed. It wasn't curiosity that had brought him here, nor was it the recovery of past emotions. And yes, he did indeed feel those things, but it was something a lot stronger that had put him at her doorstep: _guilt_. He'd left her…just left her there with only a few camera men for company. _Hell_…the only notice she'd gotten of his death was an apology and a can of his supposed ashes. He could've watched her reaction, but he didn't. He hadn't wanted to see how she'd take it. She'd been the strong one in their relationship—always had been. It would've destroyed him to see her any weaker than she'd been every day that he'd known her. It _ate_ at him. The guilt had always been there. He was just able to ignore it, but that picture…after seeing it, it festered and no matter what he did, it wouldn't leave and he knew…he _knew_, that standing here outside her house wasn't going to change that, so he stood, tucking the photo back into his jacket and without a moment more of hesitation, strode across the street…

_…and almost got run over by a car for his rush._

Adrenaline now pumping and a little rumpled, but no less determined, he climbed the steps and after a second of indecision knocked heavily on the door.

The wait was long, long enough for him to consider running away, but just as he was about to attempt it, the door snatched back from the frame with such force he was sure it would come off the hinges…it didn't…but _still._ He stared, bewildered, at a grinning female, short blonde hair falling in her eyes and for a moment, just a moment, he thought it was her…but then the girl's smile dropped and a bland look, almost a glare really, settled onto her face.

"Who're _you_?"

He blinked at her pronunciation, but really, he shouldn't be surprised. The girl was likely a native of England. He also realized with a blink that he probably shouldn't be too offended by her cutting tone and flat stare, she was, _after all,_ a teenager. And a disappointed one at that.

"Uhhh…um," nervously, he fidgeted under her sharp eyed look, "is Monica Théard here?"

"_Théard_?" She blinked before raising a brow. Leaning into the doorway, she asked with a suspicious tone, "Why do _you_ wanna know?"

"I…I…_well_…I—"

Thankfully, his failure in the usage of the English language was cut off by a more mature female voice asking, "Who's at the door, Ashley?"

The voice was lacking the pronunciation of an England native and had a barely there southern accent if one listened hard for it. Skull had stiffened at the question and the girl—_Ashley_—narrowed her eyes.

"It's some weird kid."

An annoyed huff came from behind the door, closer than before, "What did I tell you about being rude?"

Ashley rolled her eyes and looked over her shoulder, "but he_ is_!"

The door pulled open all the way and Skull swallowed thickly.

"It doesn't matter what you think, you shouldn't say…_things_…_like that_." Her voice had gone up an octave at the sight of him, fading into silence almost immediately after. She was staring at him, her expression, a mixture of horror, disbelief, confusion, hope, and…_anger_. He didn't blame her. Honestly…he couldn't. He was, _after all,_ the spitting image of Rafaelle de Stare, a deceased stuntman who'd been called The Immortal Skull…_only_…he was the spitting image of Rafaelle de Stare…at _thirteen_.

"_Who the hell…"_

Ah…there it was. He almost smiled. That southern accent was suddenly out full force and Skull knew he was in for it…he only hoped he survived the outcome.

* * *

**Afterword:** ...I wanted to add like...at least another 2-3 pages of story here...but...I felt like this was a good place to stop. :) Hope you all enjoyed this intro.

**_-S.T._**


End file.
